Miss Lindel's Love (19 page)

“Farther off? Perhaps. Yet it will happen sooner or later; it’s inevitable. Then what shall I do? I do not think I am of the temperament to merely sit by while I await the arrival of grandchildren.”

“Then what?”

“I believe I will travel. I’ve always wished to see Italy and Constantinople.”

Maris stared at her mother, wonderstruck. “You have?”

Mrs. Lindel laughed and pinched her daughter’s cheek. “How little children know of their parents. Your father and I were supposed to go to France on our honeymoon but the Revolution made it unsafe. Then you were born and the situation on the Continent grew worse and worse. When the peace was declared in 1802, I couldn’t go because Sophie was too young for me to leave her. Sometimes it seemed as though Napoleon came along just to spite my ambition. I find it very hard to forgive him for having been emperor for so long.”

“How inconsiderate of him! May I come too, Mother? Italy sounds delightful and, if Constantinople pleases us, let us go on to the pyramids!”

“If you wish, my dear, of course. After you return from Bath, we shall see.”

* * * *

To everyone’s surprise, Miss Menthrip made no objections to Lord Danesby sending her to Bath. She seemed to feel some distinction between burdening her friends with her troubles and accepting largesse from the lord of the manor.

She wrote him a letter of thanks, sometimes asking Maris for a word. “Seal that, my girl,” she said. “I don’t want him thinking that I have no gratitude.”

“I’ll send it off at once,” Maris promised.

“See it’s paid for. I owe him quite enough as it is without adding postage to the bill.”

Maris carried away the standish and tray. After a moment’s consideration, she wrote a postscript at the bottom of Miss Menthrip’s letter, passing along her kind thought of saving his lordship the further expense of franking her letter. Maris thought it would amuse him.

Walking home through the bat-flitted twilight, Maris wondered if she would like Bath. She’d seen more of England in the last six months than in her entire lifetime before this spring. London had impressed her while Yorkshire had refreshed her admittedly battered spirit with its magnificent views.

Everyone who had journeyed to Bath had delightful tales to tell of its cultural and social spheres. Rational enjoyment seemed the order of the day, even for the valetudinarians trundled about in chairs to drink of and bathe in the famous waters. Maris felt a qualm of trepidation, however, whether these delights would be open or closed to a girl who had blotted her copybook as severely as she had, even though the fault stemmed from another’s ambition.

There had been those in London who had cut her after the events at Durham House became public knowledge. It had seemed unfair that Mrs. Armitage should continue to be received, yet Maris felt this, too, was a valuable lesson. Even if the question of returning to town for another Season arose, she would debate the necessity until the idea was given up. Perhaps Sophie would have better fortune if her poet failed her. Maris would content herself for now with Bath.

“No matter what happens.” She sighed. After all, she was not there to indulge in idle pleasures but to assist Miss Menthrip. Perhaps once she was entirely recovered, there would be time for other pursuits. Even if Maris were invited nowhere, there were supposed to be a great many public events, concerts and the like, open to subscribers.

* * * *

“Another rented lodging.” Maris sighed as they reached the town at last. It had been a slower journey than any she’d undertaken yet, for only a funereal pace would spare Miss Menthrip the worst of the bouncings and shakings inherent in travel by coach. Fortunately, the weather had continued fine, sparing them both mud and dust. The coach, though antiquated, was extremely roomy. Nevertheless, Maris felt overjoyed to be leaving it, stepping down into the shaded cool of late afternoon. She found herself in a quiet square, houses on all four sides, boxing in a small park in the center.

A large oak tree growing in the park extended its heavy branches as though stretching after a long sleep. Though some golden leaves dusted the street, the tree was still heavily laden enough to make an appreciable difference to the temperature. The square was so silent she could hear the rustle of the leaves as a treetop breeze toyed with them. The houses the tree shaded were all of red brick, yet there was sufficient difference in pediments, shutters, and frontispieces for the residents to tell one house from another.

Their own residence stood in the center of one side of the square, the sun sending its last rays over the roofs opposite to shine with dazzling brilliance on the windows above her. The door stood open, a man in the exquisitely correct clothes of the compleat butler advancing down the steps, two younger male servants following like acolytes. “Welcome, Miss Lindel. I am Tremlow, of the household.”

Without any noticeable sign from him, the two footmen took their places beside the coach, one helping Miss Menthrip out, the other apparently prepared to sacrifice himself should she fall. ‘Your room awaits you, Miss Menthrip,” Tremlow said. “Both tea and cordial will be sent up instantly.”

“I don’t deny I’ll take them both and be glad.” Though pale and unsteady on her feet, Miss Menthrip studied the butler with a sharp look. “Have I seen you before?”

“I don’t believe so, madam.” He bowed as she passed him. “If you’ll accompany me, Miss Lindel?”

“Thank you.” She followed him, marveling. He was nothing like the butler Mrs. Paladin had hired in London. One could not imagine soup stains on Mr. Tremlow’s linen nor the slightest tinge of black under his fingernails. The very thought was an abomination.

The lower rooms that she glimpsed were furnished in an excellent style, modern without excess and touched with the occasional elegant antique. Since the lower rooms so exceeded the quality of those of the house in London, Maris assumed the private rooms were correspondingly even more shabby.

She found herself instead in the midst of a room so delicate and well planned that it seemed destined for some great lady. The vast bed’s hangings were obviously French, rich, heavy tassels and silken ropes tying them back. Two large crystal vases stood on either side of the bed on gleaming tables, full of beautifully arranged flowers that scented the air like rare perfume. It reminded her briefly of the scent Lilah had spilled all those months ago.

Maris studied the butler. “As you have our names, I assume we are in the right house.”

‘Yes, Miss Lindel.”

“By whom are you employed, Mr. Tremlow?”

“I was engaged by a firm of solicitors, miss. Messers. Dewar, Pomfret, and Frears, Lincoln’s Inn. They are also the agents for this house, which belongs to His Grace, the Duke of Saltaire.” He made an adjustment to a window curtain as a lady’s maid swept in, bearing a tray. The intoxicating smell of fresh china tea made Maris lick her dry lips in anticipation. “Will there be anything further, Miss Lindel?”

“No, thank you, Tremlow.”

“Dinner will be served at your convenience, Miss Lindel.”

“Thank you. Half an hour should suffice.”

The house and the money had all been arranged through third and even fourth parties, in order to remove any impropriety from Lord Danesby’s housing Miss Lindel. The fact that she was merely Miss Menthrip’s companion would not have weighed against the fact of their earlier association. Not one person in a thousand would believe that she wasn’t his mistress, Miss Menthrip’s presence a mere blind, if the knowledge of who paid the rent should become disseminated.

Maris crossed the hall to visit Miss Menthrip and found her in bed, a very superior style of maidservant hanging up her clothes. “I shall press these few things, ma’am,” she said with a curtsy as she bore off an armload of gowns.

“What in the name of all that’s wonderful is the meaning of this?” Miss Menthrip demanded when they were alone.

“Don’t distress yourself.”

“Distress myself? What’s to be distressed about? I just don’t understand what he thinks he is doing. I’m no fairy princess to be wafted to realms of gold at some sultan’s wish.”

“I certainly am not,” Maris answered in reply to a certain expression in Miss Menthrip’s coal black eyes. “To speak in earnest, ma’am, I believe it is simply that he ordered a house to be made ready in Bath and his solicitors undertook to do so. Perhaps they thought he himself meant to occupy the house. He wrote to Mother that everything would be done with the utmost discretion.”

“Sounds fishy to me,” Miss Menthrip said querulously. “I suspect that I’m the first person to ever lie upon this feather mattress. I further suspect that everything in this house is fresh from the joiners’ hands.”

“It certainly is elegant,” Maris said. “Yet homelike as well. I wonder if the Duke who owns it spends much time in it.”

“What duke?”

“The butler said this house belongs to the Duke of Saltaire, whoever he may be.”

Miss Menthrip frowned and traced a curling vine embroidered on the coverlet. “Saltaire. It seems to me I’ve heard that name somewhere and recently too.”

The doctor had warned Maris that sometimes after an illness an elderly person will suffer from gaps in their memory. He had every hope that Miss Menthrip’s lapses would be short-lived, all the more reason not to make a fuss when she became forgetful.

“I’m sure I don’t recall anyone by that name and I met hundreds of young men while in town.”

“I hope you mean to tell me of all your conquests, Maris. I enjoyed your letters despite their being too short.”

Maris laughed. “I broke very few hearts.”

“More than you know, perhaps,” Miss Menthrip said hopefully.

“I doubt it. I never knew any other man was even in the room. I had my eye fixed on an unobtainable pinnacle and lesser mortals hardly existed.”

“Who?” Miss Menthrip breathed.

Maris realized she’d been speaking her thoughts aloud. Quickly, she turned aside Miss Menthrip’s curiosity with a wave of her hand and a merry, “Why who else but the Prince Regent himself? Don’t you know I simply dote on men of full habit? What should I do with a young buck with a head of thick hair and a trim waistcoat? A king or nothing for me.”

“He won’t be king for a good while yet, may it please God.
You
young things don’t remember him when he was young and trim. The best-looking man in Europe, they called him once. Bath was a grand city then, not a creaking hospital. Mark my words, there won’t be a soul under eighty at the baths tomorrow save for me and thee.”

“Oh, surely not.”

But Miss Menthrip wasn’t listening to her. She had her head cocked to one side, the loose pewter gray braid falling free over her shoulder. “I hear wheels. Is it a visitor?”

“Surely not for us, ma’am. We shall have to grow used to sharing visitors with our neighbors. In London it took me a long time to learn what to attend to and what to ignore.”

Impossible, however, to ignore the rat-a-tat of the shining brass knocker on the front door. At Miss Menthrip’s urging, Maris stepped out onto the landing and peered over the railing.

Tremlow’s voice rose. “I shall ascertain, my lord, if you will wait.”

Maris wished she’d done more than dab her face with a flannel and run a comb through her hair. She did not wish to meet Lord Danesby again looking as though she’d been dragged backward through a hedge. She hurried again into Miss Menthrip’s room as the butler started up the stairs.

“His lordship has come to call,” she gasped.

“Heavens, girl, no need to put yourself in such a taking. No doubt he’s merely come to see how we fared on our journey. I call that gentlemanly to a fault. He could have just as well waited until tomorrow.”

When Mr. Tremlow, bowing very low, bid Miss Menthrip to say whether she was at home to visitors, she assumed the grand manner as one who is born to it. Ignoring Maris’s urgent signals from behind the butler to deny herself, she inclined her head graciously. “We should be pleased to see his lordship. Kindly request him to await us in the drawing room. We do have a drawing room?”

“Yes, Miss Menthrip. I shall inform him.”

As soon as the door closed, she threw off her bedclothes and her invalidish air. “Go down at once, girl. First ring for that haughty wench. I’ve not the least notion where she put any of my clothes and I can’t see Lord Danesby in this bed gown.”

“You needn’t see him,” Maris said. “Pray don’t agitate yourself; the doctor said it was bad for you.”

“Pish! I’d not be here at all if it weren’t for his lordship and I’ll not turn him from my door the first night I’m here.”

“He’d understand if you said you were too tired.”

Miss Menthrip’s wise dark eyes narrowed. “Are you certain it’s not yourself who don’t wish to see him? You can’t be shy of him, not after making so bold as to call on him to beg his consideration for me.”

“No, I’m not shy of him at all. I was merely thinking ...”

“You think too much, Maris, that’s half your complaint. Now, hurry along. Don’t keep him waiting.”

Maris reminded herself that she had no reason anymore to be shy of Lord Danesby. Her girlish idolatry of him was quite burnt out, replaced by a tentative liking, when she felt confident enough that liking was not in its way as great an impertinence as infatuation. That day at Finchley Place had confirmed her appreciation of his good qualities. He’d given her no reason to be either shy or embarrassed by any reference, even the most glancing, to what had occurred in town. His tall friend, Mr. Swift, had also been most gentlemanly, not only to her but to Lucy. She, poor thing, had been quite overcome by the company she’d found until both men, with great delicacy, had exerted themselves to put her at ease.

Despite her memories of their last meeting, Maris drew damp hands down her skirts just before entering the drawing room. Though this room was the most elegant she’d seen yet, she had no eyes for the moss green curtains or the delicately carved Chippendale furnishings. Lord Danesby rose to his feet on her entrance, and gave her his most enchanting smile.

“How good of you to call, my lord,” she said, shaking hands.